


A Series Of Moments, As The Way They Could Have Been (Or, Had Jessica Maxson Been A Proper Mother)

by ghostchibi



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, Child Death, Gen, Gore, the gore and such is very short and sparse but it's still there, there is no actual child death in this but there's a described child murder in a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostchibi/pseuds/ghostchibi
Summary: What would have she been like, had she been there for Arthur after all?





	A Series Of Moments, As The Way They Could Have Been (Or, Had Jessica Maxson Been A Proper Mother)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm saying this now to make it as clear as possible: Arthur Maxson's mother was, as far as game canon explains, abusive. She sent him across the country at eight years old to a completely new place where he knew nobody, because he wasn't "tough enough." That's not right.
> 
> But what would have she been like, if she wasn't so keen on treating her son like an object like the rest of the Brotherhood did? What if she'd stayed with him and been the mother she should have been?
> 
> (She's definitely alive for much longer, for one thing.)

Jessica Maxson is 28 when she gives birth to her first and only child.

He’s tiny and terrifyingly silent and at first she thinks, coherent enough despite the Med-X, that her baby is dead and all of her suffering was in vain. But there’s a whimpering sob followed by a wail that sounds nearly like a bellow compared to the first noise, and she cries too; tears continue from mother and child until the doctor finally helps her sit up and places the squirming bundle in her arms.

This baby is a Maxson, yes, but just as much hers as her husband’s. Her husband has at the very least conceded the right to name the baby to her. Because she’s the one carrying it, and the baby’s going to have her husband’s surname anyway and nobody will ever forget whose child this is. This baby has been her burden and her husband’s god-given gift. If she’s the one that bears the heaviest weight to continue the Maxson lineage, she’s going to leave her mark on this baby. Nobody is going to forget her.

The baby boy opens his eyes and she sees her own eyes reflected back, markedly not of her husband’s. Her mark. Hers.

* * *

Arthur isn’t as daring as the other little children.

He loves to explore, yes, but the smallest sign of danger has him crawling as fast as his hands and legs can take him back to his parents. Jessica fumes; her husband seems disappointed, unable to boast about his son’s bravery even as a baby, some sort of proof of Maxson strength. They’ll say it’s because of her, maybe, that she’s infected that proud lineage with timidity and frailty. How dare they say such, after making her grow the damned thing inside of her, leeching off of her, that it’s a failure because of her?

But Arthur is a baby. He cries a lot, screams a lot, clings to his parents a lot. He’s just as normal as the other children.

* * *

She realizes that she actually loves her son.

He’s four years old and he’s gotten himself all goddamn dirty digging around in the dirt because her husband thought it was a great idea to let Arthur outside for a bit. Undoubtedly a way to get Arthur to be less withdrawn.

She’s about to start scolding him when Arthur pulls something out from under his shirt (his shirt, of all the places to hide something, his shirt, really?) and presses a dirt-dusted bunch of tiny white flowers against her knee.

“Mommy, I didn’t know it was so pretty outside,” he says. “You should come outside too.”

She’s still angry about all the dirt, and she definitely doesn’t want any dirty flowers, but they still end up in a little vase after a quick rinse. A few days later the flowers wilt, shriveled up so tight the petals curl in, and leave a mess on the table to be cleaned up. She sweeps them away when Arthur isn’t looking.

* * *

How is she supposed to take care of Arthur?

Her husband is dead. Died far too young, far too low in rank and age to be gone now. It doesn’t matter why he’s gone and Jessica doesn’t really pay attention when she’s told. She’s too numb, her mind racing back to Arthur. His father is gone. All that’s left of Roger Maxson’s blood is Arthur.

She doesn’t know how to do this alone, how to raise a child by herself let alone in the way that the Brotherhood wants her to raise the last Maxson. She’s not a Maxson, not really. That title goes to the toddler who pulls at her sleeve and asks her why dad didn’t come back too.

That night she dreams of power armor and red robes, hands holding Arthur in the air.

“If you won’t give us Maxson’s blood, then we’ll take it,” is the only explanation she gets for being forced to watch her boy bleed, knives in his chest and so much red, far more than could possibly exist inside of a child, and the screaming won’t stop even when his throat is cut and the spray coats her hands covering her eyes.

The screaming echoes from dream to reality as she snaps awake, and she staggers to Arthur’s bed as she follows his nightmare wailing. She holds him tight and wills him back to sleep like a good boy, be a good boy and lie down and close your eyes and don’t think about daddy, or about the body they brought back that looked like him if not for the head missing from his shoulders.

* * *

He’s only eight and they’re already calling him weak. Jessica asks them what they were doing at eight years old, picking up guns already were they? But they retort that he’s going to be holding one in two years, and she better start whipping him into shape now if there’s any hope for him.

There’s no hope for him here, where they’ve already made up their minds about him. Jessica sets her sights elsewhere. D.C. is so far away, the farthest from Lost Hills one can go and still be near. Owyn Lyons was willing to be different enough to throw himself out that far; surely he must be crazy enough to train Arthur.

He accepts, they concede, and Jessica packs everything for Arthur as he cries in his room at the news.

* * *

They don’t like her or him here, either, but Jessica and Arthur have Owyn’s support. And his daughter’s support too, enough so for her to offer to train him personally. She’s a Sentinel so she has the time and permission to do something like this. There are other squires, yes, but they don’t seem to like Arthur either. Either they don’t find his name impressive or they find it too impressive, staying away and gossiping among themselves. Jessica tries to nudge him toward other children, but he can’t seem to get close enough to even talk. They walk away or flee, and Arthur reacts by putting even more distance there.

It’s a lost cause. Jessica stops talking about friends around Arthur, and lets him use his terminal more often.

* * *

“I met someone today,” Arthur says, and the unexpected tone and topic requires a bit of recovering from.

“Someone you hadn’t seen yet? A new initiate?” she asks, and Arthur shakes his head.

“She’s a wastelander. The Elder wants her to do something for the Brotherhood." 

That’s curious. Owyn is desperate enough to seek outside help these days, Jessica thinks, but so was she a few years ago. Glass houses, throwing stones.

"I think she’s my friend,” Arthur says. “I like her. I hope she comes back again.”

* * *

Her son sets off with a laser pistol too big for his hands, and returns without it or the hand he held it in.

It’s not a clean cut. Deathclaw claws left smooth-edge lines. The teeth left mangled tatters. Arthur’s elbow flares open like a burst can. Knight-Captain Danse clutches him to his chest and bellows for a medic, and nobody else hears the waver in his voice that threatens to crack the seals holding in his tears. Nobody other than Jessica, of course. She pries Arthur from his arms, and later she’ll feel bad about this but right now she’s screaming at this shaking soldier.  _What did you let happen to my boy_ , she rages,  _what did you do to him, answer me you-_

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, which is for the best. She almost yanks Arthur away from the hands that come to grab him, before realizing it’s a medic. She doesn’t want to hand him over but she knows he’s going to die if she doesn’t. The red stands out in stark contrast on the olive green of her shirt, smeared across her face, all over her hands. Sarah pulls Jessica away and back to her room and tells her to sit down, and that she’s going to find out what happened but until then to stay here.

She stays, and passes the time by taking out her anger on her room.

* * *

Right arm severed at the elbow, extensive facial lacerations, both eyes damaged beyond repair. She doesn’t ask the medics, just snatches the paper from the doctor’s hands and reads it herself.

“He’s blind and missing his forearm,” she says. The doctor starts to say something about prostheses and she cuts him off immediately. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes, he’s blind and his arm was amputated at the elbow.”

She wants to crumple the paper up and toss it aside, but it’s crucial paperwork for her son’s medical care so she resists the urge and instead just throws it back at the doctor. Without asking permission, she marches herself straight to Arthur’s bedside, because she doesn’t need any goddamn permission to see her own son.

“Senior Scribe Maxson-”

“Shut up,” she snarls, and puts one hand on Arthur’s cheek with an expression changed in an instant. “Arthur? Are you awake?”

Instantly his hand grabs at her wrist and she realizes that she probably shouldn’t have touched him without letting him know first that it was her. He tries to grab with his missing hand too, his right arm rising the way it should had he reached out to her.

“Sweetie, it’s me. It’s your mother. It’s okay,” she reassures him, and Arthur seems to be trying to see her face.

“Where are you?” he asks, before his arm goes limp and he slips into another drowsy sleep.

* * *

“I wasn’t brave,” are the first words out of his mouth, barely above a whisper. “Mom, I ran.”

“You’re here because you ran,” she tells him. He’s finally out of bed, with something practically welded to his right elbow and two little machine orbs in his head. The replacement arm looks far too real for Jessica’s comfort and the replacement eyes are fucking blue. They didn’t even bother trying to make them look the way they used too.

“If I didn’t run, I could have killed it,” Arthur says. “It might have died before it attacked us.”

“You don’t fight deathclaws,” Jessica replies. “You run from them. You turn around and leave.”

Arthur doesn’t believe her, she knows.

* * *

First it was Owyn’s death, then it’s Sarah’s. Jessica covers her son’s eyes as they carry Sarah’s body in, the way she wished she had when they did the same with her husband’s. Her body is intact, all one piece, but her head is tilted to the side, there’s no life in her eyes, her body settles too limply. Arthur tries to pry the hands off of his eyes but Jessica holds tight.

Sarah had no Sentinel. She hadn’t had the time to name one. Mere hours after her death, the infighting sets off.

* * *

Five elders in three years. And now they’re trying to make it six.

“Mom, it’s fine, I know what I’m doing-”

“No you don’t!” She wishes her words weren’t coming across as damning her son’s inability, because he’s taking it all to heart. “You’re sixteen. Do you remember how old the Elders are elsewhere? How old Owyn and Sarah Lyons were when they became elders?”

“But there’s nobody else who can lead!”

“Arthur, that doesn’t mean you have to!”

“I’m a Maxson, I have to do this.”

And she wants to smack those words out of his mouth the moment he speaks them, because being a Maxson doesn’t mean becoming Elder at sixteen because nobody else has the capability.

“Shouldn’t I be taking up the title then, if that’s the only reason why?” she asks him, and he turns away.

“They wouldn’t let you. You’re a scribe, mom. And you’re not related to Roger Maxson.”

They’re both throwing some very truthful, hurtful words at each other. Jessica wishes this was something she could fight, but so many high-ranking people have thrown their support behind her son. Her son, still a child. They’re putting more faith in a child than they are in her, a grown woman.

“I can’t stop them, or you, I guess,” she says, and neither of them speak to each other for a solid month.

* * *

A lot of planning goes on around Arthur. He’s a smart boy, a tactical genius, clever with words (clever enough to get the Outcasts to return, something that not even Sarah had managed with her sympathies toward them).

Clever enough to be selfish without being caught.

“The  _Prydwen?_ ” Jessica asks, and Arthur grins because he knows that his mother knows.

“Nobody else is going to figure out,” he says. “They don’t look at books if it’s not ‘useful’ information.”

“Maybe so, but really?”

“It’s my ship, Mom, I think I should be able to name it.”

She shakes her head and laughs, laughs at how clever her boy is, how clever he’s become; and yes, he’s nineteen now and no longer a child but still far too young to be Elder. She won’t begrudge him for taking a bit of happiness out of naming a warship something selfish right under everyone’s nose.

“And if anyone asks?”

“I’ll say I liked the name, and it was a fitting name for the ship. You know that nobody’s going to ask, right?”

And nobody does ask.

* * *

“Arthur Maxson, you bring your ass home, you hear me?” she says, her face completely serious but Arthur smiles in return.  _I can’t promise that_  is what he’s trying to say, but he nods regardless.

“I will, Mom,” he replies. “I’ll be home again soon.”

Jessica knows that to crush an organization that vastly overpowers the Brotherhood is far more likely to end with death, maybe one that stalks the Brotherhood back to the source. But what needs to be done must be done.

God, she hates that. If her son doesn’t come back home, she’s going to be causing a lot of hell in the Citadel.


End file.
